THOUGH ice do hang upon the willows

Out bezide the vrozen brook,

An’ storms do roar above our pillows,

Drough the night, 'ithin our nook; through

Our evenèn he'th's a-glowèn warm, hearth's

Drough wringèn vrost, an’ roarèn storm.

Though winds mid meäke the wold beams sheäke, may, old

In our abode in Arby Wood.

An’ there, though we mid hear the timber

Creake avore the windy raïn;

An’ climèn ivy quiver, limber, pliant

Up ageän the window peäne;

Our merry vaïces then do sound,

In rollèn glee, or dree-vaïce round; three-

Though wind mid roar, 'ithout the door,

Ov our abode in Arby Wood.